Courtroom, present day.

The wooden benches creak as you sit down, your knees barely steady beneath the table that feels too big for someone your age. Sixteen. The number echoes in your head while the bailiff calls the room to order. Your siblings sit behind you—five small bodies pressed together like they’ve learned the world is only safe when they’re close. They look to you, the way they always have.

You straighten your jacket. It still smells faintly of stale beer and disinfectant from the bar. You worked a double last night—again. No one here asked how the electricity stayed on or how there was food on the table. But you’re about to tell them.

Across the room, your parents sit side by side. Your mother’s foot shakes, fast and erratic. Your father avoids looking at any of you, staring instead at the judge’s bench like it might swallow him whole. You barely recognize them as parents. To you, they’ve always been shadows—loud, drunk, angry, or gone.

The judge clears their throat. “This hearing concerns the petition by the biological parents to regain custody of their minor children.”

Your stomach drops.

The parents’ lawyer stands first, speaking smoothly about second chances and rehabilitation plans. You catch the word love and almost laugh. Your youngest sibling grips your sleeve.

Then the judge looks at you.

“You are the eldest?” “Yes, Your Honor.” Your voice is steady. You learned how to make it steady a long time ago—back when you were three years old, dragging a chair to the sink so you could reach the tap to fill a bottle.

“You’ve requested to speak.”

You stand. The room feels too quiet.

“I’ve been taking care of my brothers and sisters since I was three,” you say. “Not babysitting. Taking care of them. Feeding them. Getting them dressed. Walking them to school. Making sure they didn’t wake up to empty bottles and broken glass.”

Your mother shifts. Your father exhales sharply.

“I work at a bar,” you continue. “I know it’s illegal. I know I shouldn’t be serving alcohol. But I do it because someone has to pay rent. Someone has to buy groceries. Someone has to make sure they don’t go to bed hungry.”

The judge’s expression hardens—not at you, but at the defense table.

“They drink almost every day,” you say, pointing—not accusing, just stating a fact. “They used drugs. Sometimes they still do. They forgot birthdays. They forgot school meetings. They forgot us.”

Your voice wavers for half a second, and you swallow it down.

“They didn’t raise us,” you finish. “I did.”

Silence floods the room.

Behind you, your siblings don’t cry. They just watch you—like they always have—waiting to see if you’ll keep them safe this time too.

The judge leans forward. “Thank you,” they say quietly. “You may sit.”

And as you do, you realize this isn’t just a courtroom anymore.

It’s a fight.